


This Will Destroy You

by RedRuse



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Cassandra Cain is Black Bat, Character Death, Coping, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Haunting, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jason Todd Angst, Jason Todd Feels, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Lazarus Pit, M/M, Mystery, Out of Body Experiences, Protective Jason Todd, Repressed Memories, Stephanie Brown is Batgirl, Talking To Dead People, Tim Drake Angst, Tim Drake is Not Okay, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23018614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRuse/pseuds/RedRuse
Summary: When he finds out, it's not because someone told him. It's because he noticed the empty space.When he finally decides to ask, he is met with anger and dismissal.When Alfred comes to him in the dead of night, seeking his figure out in the grunge of Crime Alley, Jason finally knows.When he sees Tim's slightly transparent, ghastly form seated on his couch, he has no other choice but to accept the facts: Batman lost another Robin.Bruce lost another son.Again.Like he didn't learn his lesson the first time.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Everyone, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Everyone, Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Comments: 48
Kudos: 342





	1. Wonderful Lie

**Author's Note:**

> As a breather in between updates for Hindsight, I had the idea for this in the middle of the night and someone's already mad at me for coming up with it. I keep being asked why I continuously hurt Tim and Jason specifically and it's because it makes for an interesting story.
> 
> I'm sorry, certainly, but not sorry enough.
> 
> Installment one of "Jason Todd dealing with death!"  
> Just kidding.  
> Because....it's not like I tried writing a thing where Jason could sense when people were dying—

Gotham danced between chaos and stillness like a waltz, never once paying attention to those she tread on. But that was Gotham. That was home. Just like the bite of the coastline, just like the whine of sirens, this behavior was a given. Predictable, even. It was different this time, though, like she was on the brink of collapse. Tense like a harp. Fragile like glass mosaics.

And, for a while, he didn't know why. A troll that never left his bridge in Crime Alley, it's not as if Jason could always keep an eye on everything that happened in the city. He couldn't walk around in costume, prodding answers from people that would know better than to withhold information at the sight of him. Even so, bit by bit, it started to sink in. When he realized that every single Bat was easily found within city limits, that was the exact moment he decided to do a head count.

He counted multiple times just to be sure, and the numbers refused to add up.

  


**\+ +**

  


"Master Jason..."

Even under the heavy pitter of rainfall, that voice was like a trumpet among flutes. Clear, rounded, and enough to send chills up his spine. Turning slowly, Jason eyed the older man as he stood beneath a street lamp. He had since cleared out the block of ruffians and druggies, letting the blatant reveal of his identity go without remark. The hollows of Alfred's features were undeniable in the spotlight. Haggard and exhausted, the butler looked dead on his feet.

On any other day, he'd be tempted to hug the soul out of Alfred - if nothing else, at least get him out of the rain before he caught a cold. The man had on barely more than a coat and hat to protect him from the late spring showers; and both articles were already soaked through. Just how long had he been out searching for him..?

Today, however, he was low on patience.

"Hey, Alfie," he crooned, "here to apologize on D's behalf for nearly breakin' my damn nose?"

Alfred said nothing. Swollen shadows under his eyes seemed to grow as seconds of taut silence passed.

Unnerved, Jason tried again, stepping closer to the street and out of the alley. "Seriously, what's his fuckin' problem? I didn't even do anything - scout's honor!" He placed a gloved hand over his heart and raised the other over his head. And still, no reaction. "I only asked where Replacement was and he clobbered me just as hard as B usually does. Am I so hated that I can't even mention people by name?"

It wasn't as bad as he made it sound. In fact, this time the outlaw really had provoked Dick to his limits, pestering incessantly about his successor's whereabouts. The elder raven tried to wave him off, going so far as to even disregard him by saying he had no business asking questions. He had never been interested in the family before - doing so much as to stay out of all affairs - so Jason didn't get to act like he could be so personal. Which, beyond the actual fist to the face, hurt him in a way that only Bruce could manage. Hearing it from Dick made it linger like spoiled garlic under his tongue.

But that was fine, right? After all, it was just Dick. He says things that sometimes hurts and then everyone has to move on with their lives. He must've been having a bad day.

Gingerly, as if the action hurt every cell in his body, Alfred breathed in deeply through his nose. Eyelids fluttering shut, the trumpet silenced with a horrible, strangled sound. The orchestra shattered and the curtain fell.

Though lightning cracked through the sky, he heard it clear as day:

"Master Timothy has passed."

It hit like a speeding bullet train and didn't stop until nothing of Jason remained, rooted to the spot as he fought to see past the red.

  


**+**

  


After that precise moment in time, whatever followed next was a blur. The rest of the night was washed away by thick raindrops. The morning immortalized the city in frost. He didn't sleep, instead scouring the internet and sifting through recent news clippings, looking for something - anything - that made a lick of sense. Jason couldn't find a single word to describe what compelled him to speed through three different red lights on his way to Wayne Manor around midday.

Muscle memory returned, guiding him down roads he hadn't traversed in what felt like an eternity. He forewent the front doors and settled on the cave instead, pulling off his helmet and letting his motorcycle run idly next to the Batmobile. Someone was there, seated at the Batcomputer with their back to him. Someone else was on the training mats. He really didn't give a shit who either of them were.

His throat tore, his lungs burned in protest, but Jason Todd roared like it was all he knew how to do.

"BRUCE!!" the young man bellowed, facing the stairwell leading upwards to the grandfather clock. He knew the man in question could hear him - besides the fact that he had cameras and microphones set up all over the place, one of the vigilantes he had just scared the life out of would call for him. "GET YOUR FUCKIN' ASS DOWN HERE OR I SWEAR TO GOD I AM GOING TO SHOOT EVERYTHING THAT MOVES."

It was Damian on the mats. Go figure. He came from around the dummies, form defensive and on high alert.

No, he didn't relax when he saw Jason. Because he was smart.

And because, at some point, Jason had instinctively grabbed the gun that was tucked into the waist of his pants, letting it sit in his grip with the safety off and finger primed over the trigger. The red wasn't clearing, his skin was clammy and the nerves in his body kept struggling to hold onto a single sensation.

Barbara had been the one seated at the computer. She wheeled herself over to the rail to look at him, saying nothing to calm him down or get him to put away his firearm. When he spared her a glance in his peripherals, Jason noticed that her fiery locks were in a matted ponytail and the bags under her eyes were only partially hidden by her glasses. That was it.

' _It should be more_ ,' he distantly thought. Where was Steph, huh? She was someone he needed to see, to look her over and make sure people weren't pulling a fast one on him. Damian's only concern appeared to be the crazed outlaw standing in his sanctuary. Barbara didn't ask him how he knew or why he knew. And Bruce was taking his sweet-fucking-time.

So be it. If he wanted something else to motivate him, Jason would give him just that. Without blinking, without pivoting to confirm his target, he fired a single shot through a dummy’s head on the mat. The crack of gunfire, loud like thunder, left ears to ring and occupy the empty space with something. _Anything._

Damian hissed in alarm, snatching up a katana before turning it on the elder. He didn’t get to cuss Jason out because, finally, Bruce was descending the staircase. 

He couldn’t help it.

But god knows he didn’t try to stop it.

Seeing the stone cold expression and meager shadows, Jason immediately trained his sights on Bruce as he walked, gun still scaldingly hot. He didn’t say anything until they were yards apart, and it was an empty, “Jason.”

“Replacement’s dead.”

No one flinched.

“I had to find out on my own because even when I _tried_ to ask about him, one of your clones decked me in the face. Why didn’t anyone think to tell me right away?!”

Bruce straightened his back, eyes betraying nothing. “You never showed interest in the family before,” he said easily, “so the consensus was that you wouldn’t care anyways.”

He always did his best to be mysterious. To be devoid of emotions and dehumanize himself to make his act much more believable. Jason felt nothing _but_ emotion flooding through his veins. His hand remained steady, his aim unhindered, yet the rest of him was crumbling under the wound.

“Wouldn’t care..?” he repeated, voice thick. “I was there to help you get Damian back, wasn’t I? I was willing to help when someone came to me and _not you_. I was willing to cooperate when you really needed it. I stuck to the rules, I never killed outside of Crime Alley once we made the agreement, and you still think I wouldn’t care?”

His body burned with rage yet his eyes burned with something else, something he refused to let the others see. Someone else was descending the stairs but he ignored them. No one existed beyond Bruce. Nothing manifested beyond his line of sight and the gun that guided it. “You legit believed that _I_ wouldn’t care when _my_ replacement, the Robin that had to carry the weight of my mistakes and deal with the shit I left behind, fucking died?!”

Finally, there was a tremor in Bruce’s expression. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to let the exterior crack and show his surprise.

‘ _It’s not enough_.’

Jason pulled back the hammer, letting a solid click divide them. “Did you already hold a service?”

“Jason—”

“Answer the fucking question, Bruce, or I’m gonna lose my god damn mind.”

“.....Yes.”

His heart broke.

A clean break, maybe.

Perhaps he did this to himself. Perhaps Jason was at fault for isolating himself and clearly marking in the sand his side of the world from theirs. Maybe this was all on him.

Or maybe Bruce didn’t keep him in mind anymore. Just a consequence of being problematic, sure, but wasn’t Jason his son once? Maybe..?

He asked questions - couldn’t tell what they were but could guess by the answers alone - and Bruce, miraculously, responded without a fight. Why?

‘ _When did it happen?_ ’

“A week ago.”

‘ _When’d you have the service?_ ’

“....A week ago.”

‘ _Were you ever going to tell me?_ ’

Nothing. Jason let it drop. He tucked the gun back into the waist of his pants, turned sharply on his heel, and marched to his bike. No one stopped him. Admittedly, as he was making his exit, the pale, somber expressions on both Alfred and Stephanie’s faces from their new position behind the Batman were heartbreaking, but still not enough.

No one chased after him. No one contacted him later.

Until the sun set, Jason did everything he could to burn himself out. Kicking and screaming and laying waste to petty daytime crooks in his civvies, tearing his knuckles until they bled, smoking out a whole pack of cigarettes. Anything.

His safehouse was inhabited by nothing more than a dense darkness, the abode itself sprawled out above a warehouse in one of the long-abandoned docks. The new moon didn’t have a glow to bother him with, and the buoy lights were far from shore. From the kitchen where he slammed down his firearms and the bedroom where he stripped down to vulnerable flesh, Jason let the dark absorb him wherever he went. He showered in the dark, even, and stood for so long that the water ran cold for fifteen minutes before he finally got out.

At that point, he wasn’t alone anymore.

A light was on when he entered the living room, towel draped around his shoulders and shirt stuck to damp skin. There was someone on the couch, head lolled back and eyes closed. Shoulders raised with breath. The brow occasionally twitched. Hands flexed loosely over a bicep. 

Jason never thought of himself as the type to mourn - and definitely not like this, either. He was the type to spit blood, rage until there was nothing else he could do but curl up and allow the grief and anger, all of it, consume him in one hefty swallow.

He didn’t think _Replacement_ would be the one he could mourn over. If nothing else, Jason was hurt more on his own behalf than he was sad for the loss of another’s life. Or, so he thought.

But that alone wouldn’t explain the crisp figure in his safehouse.

It wouldn’t explain how Tim Drake was _there_.

A figment of his imagination? Possible, because this Tim seemed alive at first glance. His grief must’ve been so heavy that the outlaw conjured up a living, breathing Tim on his couch. It wasn’t until Jason stalked over to the kitchen table and retrieved one of his sidearms, safety off, that he realized how wrong things were.

Tim had a distantly blue hue to him. The ends of his limbs were faded transparent, just like the ends of his hair and the tips of his ears. He gave off a soft, icy blue ethereal glow that mixed with the artificial light of a burning bulb.

Instinct came to life when the younger’s jaw clenched, eyelids fluttering open. Jason aimed the gun directly in the center of Tim’s forehead. He refused to make the first move, not until this demon of his made its intentions clear. Then, he’d have no problem laying waste to the projection. Or the couch he got off the street a few months back.

When the hallucination spoke, eyes trained on his form, Jason nearly screamed.


	2. Descent of Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haunted by the vestige of Tim, Jason wants to find out what happened. If Bruce won't tell him, he'll find someone else. 
> 
> The mystery of Tim Drake is at hand but no one seems to care all that much; not even the deceased himself.

"Dude, put the gun away."

"Get the fuck out of my house."

Tim rolled his eyes as dramatically as humanly possible.

Real.

"It's not like I _want_ to be here," bit the teen. The corner of his mouth was crooked with a smile, legs pulled up onto the cushions and arms folded in front of his chest. The humor didn't quite reach his eyes. "I just...am."

Fake.

Jason didn't lower the gun. He didn't let his expression change, nor his body move. If he lost track of the figment, then there was a high probability that all those horror movies were right. Nothing could hurt him more than his own mind, and Tim was the right type of demon to haunt him. 

But, at some point, he had switched the safety back on.

Shooting the figure OR the couch was not a smart move. If he scared the projection away, he would never learn why it was there in the first place. It's not like it could tell him more than he already knew; it was made in his own head. If anything, the best it could do was tell him the thoughts in his subconscious that were too muddled for him to consciously understand.

Better than nothing. And he happened to actually like the hand-me-down couch.

With a slow inhale, Jason scanned every minute feature available as he asked, "Do you know who you are?"

Immediately, Tim scoffed. "What kind of question is that?"

"One you need to answer."

A moment of hesitation. Tim's eyes were clear, the stormy blues more vibrant than the elder had ever seen before. He unfolded from around himself, feet planted firmly on the floor. "Tim Drake," answered the raven. "Once the only son of the Drake family, later adopted by billionaire playboy, Bruce Wayne. Acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Previously Robin, actively Red Robin."

All obvious information. Basic stuff Jason knew without needing to think.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked next, taking one step closer.

Tim looked around the safehouse, face scrunched up in thought. He had been to very few of Jason's safehouses - though there was a very high chance that the little rat found his way into the others - and didn't seem to recognize anything right away. This either meant that the figment wasn't of his own making, unable to easily recall the information from Jason's psyche, or it was behaving as he would expect it to.

_Alive._

The option bounced around his skull without restraint. Nothing slowing it down and yet it still refused to solidify itself. Tim should've known where he was if he was there in the first place. What could he have possibly needed to understand?

Then he spoke and it was obvious:

"Somewhere near the southern end, I guess. Maybe near Port Adams. Can't see anything on the horizon, I can't smell the treatment plant, and the floor plan has enough walls to suggest it's near a more well-off area."

He already knew that it was Jason's safehouse - obviously. When asked where he was, Tim immediately tried to figure out the proper location. The _geographical_ location. Jason never even considered that.

Another step forward, arm lowering slightly. The closer Jason got, the more solid his successor seemed. Ignore the glow and the fade of his extremities, and it was just him. Just Tim, dressed in jeans with rolled-up ankles, ankle socks because of course he would, and a striped, long sleeve shirt with holes in the wrists for his thumbs.

"Do you know who _I_ am?"

Or, in other words, did Tim understand whose presence he so casually sat in.

Tim's smile this time around was genuine, maybe even fond. He tilted his head back to look at Jason and it was like his breath was sucked straight out of his lungs. He sounded wistful, like he was recalling nothing but positive memories. "You're Jason Todd," said Tim, "the Red Hood. The second Robin. _My_ Robin..."

Also known as the Robin that tried to kill him countless times in the past because of pent up anger. Also known as the ex-Robin that excommunicated himself from the family, shot to kill, and was more of a criminal than a hero. A martyr at one point, maybe, but nothing special.

Why the fuck did Tim seem so mesmerized by him? 

_His_ Robin??

With dragging movements, Jason crossed in front of him, sitting down on the farthest end of the couch but not letting his grip on the firearm go. The next question came out on its own, a simple, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

_Alive._

"Are you real..?" Jason asked, though it was more so to himself. He turned his head, finding that Tim was staring with an unreadable expression. The teen's eyes were wide, but bore no silent answers for him to take. The space around Tim felt cold, like a passing winter breeze over the top of a calm lake. They sat on the same couch, millions of miles apart.

_Dead. Alive. Dead. Alive._

"I...think so. Yeah, maybe."

_Dead._

"Replacement. Be honest with me; are you actually here?"

"....God, I hope so."

_Dead. Dead, dead, dead dead deaddead **deadeaddead—**_

Didn't he already know this though? Wasn't the absence proof enough? Wasn't Bruce telling him in person— Scratch that. Wasn't _Alfred_ coming to find him all the proof he could ever need?

He was in denial. That's all it was. 

All it could've been.

His regrets manifested into a physical form that hurt like a bitch, that twisted the invisible knife buried deep in his ribs, bleeding him dry until there was nothing left but dust. Placing the gun down on the coffee table, Jason twisted so he could properly face his shame. Look it in the eyes. The words didn't come, but Tim seemed to understand. The teen shook his head. 'It's okay,' he seemed to say. 'Don't worry.' Not like that would ever fly with Jason, but whatever. 

Slowly, he started to reach out. Confirmation. Comfort. Reassurance. Banishment. Chase away the ghost of a dead man his brain made with ease. He could never touch the shadows, no matter how much they touched him. But this was just Tim. Tim needed to rest, for both their sakes.

Tim watched him with a half-lidded gaze, the indecipherable emotion turning vacant. He mirrored the movement, voice soft and lost. "You fucked up your hand," he simply said.

"Yup.."

"Aren't you smarter than that?" Cold fingers, calloused along the pads yet gliding like silk over the back of his hand, touched the raw, uncovered wounds from his earlier fit. It was weird being touched so gently, as if he was something fragile and not a massive powerhouse with anger issues. His own ghosts were usually never this delicate, and the _last_ thing he expected was for a Bat to have a sense of care in their movements; the only person capable of such unadulterated kindness was Alfred. Dick could sometimes fill the gap, though not nearly well enough. Tim was at the bottom of the list - perhaps one peg above Damian, but that was debatable.

"I'm the punchy one. I don't like to think."

Allowing his gaze to lift, Jason occupied himself with the man in front of him for as long as he could allow. Soon, he'd be alone, with nothing more than an echo of Tim left behind to haunt his days. He had no memories of such calm, intimate moments with his successor. It just...never happened. There was maybe one or two independent occasions where they worked together or he relied on Tim for info. They weren't tense anymore, but they weren't _good_.

They would never have the opportunity again. No chance for Jason to amend his mistakes, no chance for him to say "I'm sorry" for everything he did. Only on his deathbed would he allow those words to see the sun, but, the fact remained that he would say it. Even if no one heard it. Even if he died alone. 

  


Did Tim die alone?

Was he afraid?

Was he like Jason all those years ago? Holding onto the phantom of a hope that he'd be saved by the Batman and then realizing, in his final moments, that there was no such thing as hope?

Turning his palm to the sky, he wrapped his fingers around the projection. The last thing Jason expected was for there to be a weight, for there to be something solid. He never once touched his ghosts. That just never _happened_ ; it wasn't fucking _allowed_ to. 

Eyes snapped down to the wrist in his hand. From the flushed skin and strong jostles of tendons flexing, trailing up to Tim's equally surprised expression, Jason felt every drop of blood pool in his stomach. 

Dead, but real. 

And that didn't work. That didn't make sense.

His grip became tight like a vice, knuckles turned white as his voice tore its way out of his throat. "Do you know what happened to you?" the outlaw demanded gruffly. "Do you know why you shouldn't be here right now?!"

There was real, tangible fear on Tim's face. It didn't consume his features - no, the Bat-trained mask fell into place, maybe a little lopsided - but it certainly didn't leave his eyes. The teen twisted his arm against the friction, buried into Jason's flesh with his nails. He drew blood.

Real, flowing blood. Hot as it trailed down their joined arms. Audible as it pittered against the couch cushion. Real pain burned under the wound. Not an illusion, no matter how badly Jason wanted to believe otherwise.

In response, Tim's voice wavered. He said, rather simply, "Yeah. I know."

  


**\+ +**

  


**\--Meet me at Aparo. Noon--**

Twenty minutes later, he got a tentative response.

**_\--Why?--_ **

**\--Tim--**

Then nothing. That didn't keep Jason from leaving his safehouse at around seven in the morning, shoulders heavy and bones weary with exhaustion. He couldn't sleep even if he tried; not when the ghost of his successor occupied his living space. Not when the ghost seemed so alive.

So, he went to the park on the opposite end of town. A heavy overcast swallowed the skyline, the chance of rain falling fairly low considering the past few days. The air was muggy and the city swarmed with activity. The world continued turning despite his personal turmoil.

Despite the loss. 

Along the way, Jason got three cups of coffee in one of those thick paperboard holders; one was filled with like five different types of sugar, one was a simple latte, and the other was straight black coffee with three shots of Espresso. They would be cold, muddled when his guest arrived - _if_ they showed up - but it was the thought that counted the most.

Did he expect them to come? Absolutely.

Did he think they would? Debatable.

He waited in silence as he faced Gotham River, the park bench ice cold beneath him. He didn't move much beyond taking sips of his latte, beyond glancing at the people that passed in front of him.

Hours passed and, at exactly noon, when Aparo Park was busy with families and health-nuts thriving under a bleeding sun, they arrived. Hands tucked in jacket pockets, hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, Stephanie Brown wore a deep scowl on her sullen face. The aggression wasn't directed at him directly - he could tell.

He offered up the stupid frappuccino, the whipped cream long-since deflated and the contents settled along the bottom in gritty sediment. She still took it from him, but didn't sit down right away.

Her voice was hoarse, like the vocal chords were ripping into her throat with every syllable. "What do you want?"

They weren't on bad terms per se; Jason didn't have a reason to hate her. In fact, they both came from the seedier part of Gotham. They both looked out for the little guy. He _liked_ Stephanie, even if she was bitter about his treatment of Tim in the past. And now he had gone and used Tim as a pawn to coax her into meeting.

So, maybe he was on her shit list. Understandable. Hopefully the free drink will butter her up.

Leaning against the back of the bench, he stared out over the river, steadying the drink carrier on his lap with a thumb. "I figured," he said after a while, "you'd be the only one willing to talk to me about him."

When she didn't respond right away, he scoffed, "I get it. You all think I don't care. That maybe this is somethin' I wanted or wished for, or, hell, maybe you think this might be somethin' I _did_. I didn't - so let's be very clear about that."

"I didn't—"

"Whatever it is, forget it." Jason finally looked at her. He looked at the dark bags under her eyes, at the way those very eyes glistened wetly and brought life to her form. "I can't find anything about it, and I know Bruce is gonna keep it that way. I do care, blondie," he insisted, shoulders going lax, "and it bothers me more than you'll ever understand. I just wanna know...why..."

Stephanie sat down on the bench beside him with so much force that the entire frame rattled. Her breathing was short and shallow, eyes scrunched shut. A bit of frappuccino sloshed out from under the lid and trailed down her hand, but she ignored it. In spite of her best efforts, tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

"We don't know.." the blonde choked out. With that one sentence, the floodgates opened. She threw herself flat across the top of her legs, shoulders shaking and breath hitching violently in her throat. "We don't know— _I_ don't know..! He put in for time off at W.E. and just... Jason, you don't understand; he just disappeared! For two _weeks_ and then turned up out of nowhere!"

In the time it took to blink, someone else was there, rubbing small, comforting circles into Stephanie's back. Cassandra nodded her somber greeting and something flared beneath Jason's skin.

She recognized the scorned stare and sighed. "Worried," offered the girl. "You never call. Reached out. Suddenly. Mentioned _him_. Came, for safety."

He deflated all at once. It made sense. "Right," was all he said. "Yeah, fair enough..."

Of course Cass came. He singled out Stephanie for seemingly no reason and asked her to meet him at a random location. Or, in Batman's terms, Red Hood called out a grieving Batgirl and told her to meet him at a random location with very little context. Admittedly, he half-expected her to tell someone. He also half-believed that she wouldn't.

Stephanie attached herself to Cassandra's waist, burying her face into the fabric of the other's shirt and releasing all the anguish pent up in her body. Until her strength escaped her, until she cried herself silent, the only person that looked at him was the Black Bat herself.

Cassandra Cain didn't express like the others did. She didn't wear her heart on her sleeve or show her cards, but Jason always figured it was because she couldn't. Or shouldn't. Or straight-up didn't, but she wasn't Bruce. Whatever the case might've been, here she was, watching him with eyes that screamed in emotion.

"Came for him?" she asked.

"...Yeah."

"Knew I'd come?"

"No."

"Why three?"

Three? He followed her gaze to the remaining coffee on his lap, feeling a weird kind of ache in his chest. At the time, he knew he bought three individual coffees. He _knew_ that Stephanie would never touch coffee blacker than Batman's stupid cape. Neither did he, on a good day. He wasn't even much of a coffee drinker.

Shaking his head, Jason bounced the tray on his knee. "'Dunno. For...him..?"

"Sad?"

"Don't know—" 

Truth.

"—but he haunts me."

"Do you _know?_ "

Another dismissive toss of his head, this time with a bitter smile pulling across his face. "If I knew," he snapped, "I wouldn't be here, would I?"

She merely shrugged. "Grief moves you. You feel him."

"Do you kn—"

"Distress signal one week ago," Cassandra swiftly interrupted. "Found on the street. Unconscious, but alive."

His body turned cold, his eyes went wide. Stephanie whimpered in weak protest. She had since turned her face way from Cassandra's abdomen, bloodshot eyes trained on the cup in Jason's lap like it was some kind of lifeline. Like it was all she could see in this reality as well as the next.

He came in search of answers. He came believing he understood the bare bones of everything; Tim had died and no one thought to tell him the facts. God, was he wrong... The last thing Jason expected was for Tim to have been _alive_ when he was found.

It served as a friendly reminder that his successor's circumstances didn't match his own.

"Bruce didn't... Couldn't trace back. Don't know where. When. _Why_."

Every muscle rippled against his self-control, threatening to fling the man to his feet and down the river. Cassandra seemed to sense this in the way his jaw clenched, in the way the carrier crumpled under his fist, yet she did nothing to comfort him. Her own expression seemed strained - this didn't just bother Jason.

No explicit reason? What the _fuck_?!

There was no way it was an accident, or even a byproduct of Tim having a lapse in judgement; he didn't mess up that badly, _ever_. Sure, a broken bone here or there was par for the course, but dying? No Robin died as a consequence of his own choices except for Jason. And that wasn't really his fault either. 

Joker had wanted Bruce to know that his little sidekick fucked up. He left a trail of breadcrumbs for the detective to follow, leading him to the X on a map where everything ended. His death was a clever ploy, a pawn in the grand descent of the Batman.

_Then, enter stage right, Timothy Jackson Drake—_

The "why" bit him like a rabid dog, a ferocious, infected onslaught of wounds that threatened to pull the flesh off his bones. Tim's death was some big, convoluted mystery even a week later?

"Bullshit..." the outlaw hissed. He sprung to his feet, letting the empty carrier fall to the concrete. He didn't dare turn his pointed expression onto the two girls who watched him closely. If he had, he would've noticed how relaxed they were despite the rush of aggression to his body. Despite the threat of a Lazarus-drugged nut job losing his mind. 

Swallowing down the metallic lump in his throat, Jason struggled to keep his tone even. "Thank...you.." he forced out, though he meant every word. "Thank you for...coming. For telling me.."

"Jason—"

"See ya 'round, blondie. Cass."

He stormed off for the main city, black coffee still clutched tightly in his right fist. His car was waiting a few streets down, following along the border of Ottisburg and far enough from the park that he would notice if anyone was following. Jason ignored the rush of red tint to his vision. He ignored the sickening heat in his chest that felt identical to the burn of aged Lazarus gunk.

Behind him, trailing only a few paces out of sync, someone spoke up. "Cool your jets, Jay. Seriously - you're getting worked up over nothing."

Growling in response, Jason ignored them until he was in his car, speeding towards Crime Alley and just barely adhering to staple road laws. It wasn't until the coffee was pulled from his cup holder, sipped from, and the temperature was complained about, that he nearly slammed his foot on the brake. Traffic stuttered behind him and people honked, but that was about it.

"Over _nothing_?!" he later repeated with a howl. He twisted his neck to glare at Tim, eyebrows tightly pinched and mouth painfully dry. "It's not "nothing", you fuckin' idiot!" But Tim simply shrugged his shoulders, coffee held close to his chest.

Tim followed him to Aparo Park - hence why he brought a car in the first place - and stayed for the whole conversation. He never once said a word; he never once asked Jason to buy him a coffee either, but that was beside the point. Neither Stephanie nor Cassandra, as carefully attuned to everything as the latter was, seemed to notice him.

The possibility that Tim existed as an afterimage was quite high, but that wouldn't explain why he could be touched, or why he had such a strong, manipulative effect on the world around him. Again, Jason could've been hallucinating. He pinched himself countless times and yet he couldn't shake the gut feeling that it was all for naught. That Tim was really there in his car despite the evidence piled against him.

Still, despite being present for the exact same conversation and being tuned into the same details as he, Tim hardly reacted. Even though Tim knew he shouldn't be around, even though he seemed to understand that he was _dead_ , he couldn't remember what happened. And here he was, unbothered by the lack of answers.

He pulled into a tight alleyway near one of his safehouses and threw the car into park, engine running idle. Unbuckling, Jason leaned far over the center console, grabbing Tim by the shoulders and digging his nails through the fabric of the teen's shirt. Said teen did nothing to shake him loose.

It’s not as if Jason didn’t know the words to describe this feeling in his chest. He wasn’t stupid. No, he was just stubborn. Selfish, more like.  
Definitely lost. Hurt. All the things Tim _should’ve_ been, things he was allowed to be because, no, this wasn’t fucking fair.

This was a repeat in history, only worse.

Jason’s death hadn't been some fantastic mystery. His was plain as day, complete with a step-by-step guidebook of the nitty gritty. He made a mistake, got caught, then exploded. The culprit was obvious. The location was a pinpoint on a torn map. It only got _really_ messy when he came back and found someone else in his god damn pixie boots, his murderer still roaming the streets, unpunished.

Tim’s death? No one seemed to know what happened. No one knew the actions leading up to it, no one knew where he got messed up in the first place - and yes, he got messed up, otherwise the teen wouldn’t have fallen unconscious. No one knew when. No one knew why. While the "why" stung like lemon in an open cut, the _who_ was left wide open.

Yeah, Jason wanted to know who. There was no god damn way that whatever happened to the kid was self-perpetuated. It was an attack.

It was also why he didn’t ask the girls what did the kid in. He didn't want to know the extent of Tim's injuries, and had a funny feeling that Tim wouldn't want to be reminded of it either.

So he sat there, gripping a body that fluctuated between too cold and almost warm enough, feeling a distant pulse against the curvature of his palm. He clung to the living, breathing Tim, held him out at arm's length and soaked his image into the farthest recesses of his mind. Eventually, he found his tongue. "It's not nothing," Jason insisted, though he could clearly see that the teen was about to argue. "Don't start. Listen, Replacement, this is serious. You fuckin' died and no one's battin' an eye - that's _something_."

"It doesn't bother me," said Tim, bringing the cup to his lips. "Like, I understand why you're mad, but you didn't see them when it happened."

Jason released his hold, retreated back into his seat with hands limp in his lap. He blinked slowly.

The teen set the coffee aside and moved to undo the buckle he unnecessarily put into place. "They've done what they could to accept the facts. They all know they don't need to make a big deal out of it, y'know?" Tim opened the passenger door, stretching under the shadow of a tall complex when he added, "I saw the grieving process. I get it."

Was there something the outlaw missed..? Sure, he missed the big bomb, the flood and the aftermath; hell, Stephanie was still grief-stricken, and Alfred was definitely mourning. The Bat Family was still going through motions of their own, coping some way or another, yet Jason couldn't agree with what he saw. He didn't want to believe anyone could let go of their brother and partner-in-crime so easily.

He didn't want to believe that Bruce had let _him_ go that easily so many years ago. He knew the truth now, obviously. He knew that Bruce began to crush the image of Batman beneath his heel soon after his death and someone needed to save him. He knew he wasn't so easily forgotten, recognized that the void left behind was so massive that it persisted even after he came back to life.

What made him different from Tim? What made Tim something the family could brush past only a week after his death?

Was Joker the difference?

Jason was killed by an A-lister and Bruce went on a rampage.

Damian was killed and Bruce self-destructed on the road to get him back.

Tim was killed, and Bruce moved on.

He turned off the engine. Clambering out of the car, the elder took the lead towards the back of the building where, tucked behind three dumpsters, was the door to one of his safehouses - specifically, one Tim had visited before. Frankly, Jason didn't have the patience to hide his car from wandering eyes, nor did he care who saw him in broad daylight. With a damn ghost at his heels, he just wanted to take a nap before patrol.

  


**\+ +**

  


The "wonder" of being haunted soon lost its luster. It wasn't just because Tim pissed him off more than anything else in the world. The kid merely existed. Passive, the world passing by as he did nothing to stop it. No matter where Jason went, he followed; to the next safehouse, to the 24/7 diner and the corner where his girls worked. Sometimes on patrol, sometimes not. Sometimes, Jason would leave him alone on a bar stool and come back twelve hours later to find he hadn't moved an inch.

He was infuriating to watch; that was a fact. Even so, nothing could've possibly been worse than realizing all too late that the Dark Knight himself was right on top of him.

It had been three days since he met Stephanie out in the open. Three days since he consciously thought of anyone other than the old ghosts that came back to infest his dreams.

Four days since Bruce stood in the same space as him.

His grapple wire snapped, arms reflexively crossing over his chest and shoulder turning to convert the momentum into a roll. Jason barely got to his knees before another heavy body, shadow swollen with rage, landed on the opposite side of the rooftop. He didn't even need to look at his old mentor to know this wasn't a scheduled visit. It was never scheduled anyways, only perpetuated by something he did.

So what if he shot out a drug dealer's kneecaps and left him for dead two nights ago?

Who cared if he beat the _shit_ out of a frat boy last night? He had been harassing the girls. Lesson well-earned.

His growing aggression didn't always garner Batman's corrective interference so what made now any different? Out of his peripherals, the outlaw registered, distantly, that Bruce had an offensive stance. That Bruce was _moving_ , faster than he could process through the disbelief.  
Bruce never made the first move.

Jason rolled back out of the man's path, chucking his broken grapple like a brick at Bruce's head with chilling precision. But Bruce was mad, and Batman moved fast when his anger took over. All it took was a slight head bob to avoid the projectile before he was snapping a leg out beneath him, striking Jason square in the chest.

' _Of course it's when I'm not wearin' the tazer..._ ' he silently swore. Going limp with the kick, he expanded the distance between them, leaping onto the balls of his feet just in time avoid another strike to his chest.

He couldn't go on the offensive. He knew painfully well that Bruce— Fuck no, this wasn't Bruce. _Batman_ was the one out for blood. Both Jason AND the Red Hood wanted nothing to do with it. So, he settled on defense - avoidance when he could. Grapple-less, he jumped the gap between buildings and tried to come up with an escape strategy.

Avoiding a strike to the jaw meant he got caught by a swipe of the gauntlet fin's against the chin of his helmet. Foolishly trying to hinder the Batman with a strike to the radial nerve ended with his own arm crushed between a heavy boot and the concrete; only way he managed to slip free was by kicking his legs up into the back of Batman's knee. A temporary solution was the best he could manage until words proceeded to tumble over the tip of his tongue. He leaped up for the next attack, grabbing onto Batman's forearm and using it for stability so before he forced the man to the ground. Dirty street fighting - grapples, biting, all of it - was his area of expertise. 

Like a UFC fighter off TV, he kept Batman down in a temporary hold, one jarring move away from knocking the man's arm straight out of its socket. Even when it seemed like he had the upper hand, Jason could feel the loss approaching. The stillness wouldn't last - not while the typhoon was churning under his weight.

"What the _FUCK_ —" 

Jason wheezed when the hips under him rolled, one leg swinging up to try and knock him loose.

"—do you want from me now, huh?!"

" _Hood_."

A dark, emotionless snarl. No sentiment. No hesitance. No holding himself back. 

A free foot shot forward from his position on Batman's back, slamming his heel into the back of that stupid cowl. The man's head rocked back and forth like a bobble-head figure, disoriented. "I haven't done anything!" snapped Jason. Before he knew it, the hand of the arm held against his chest turned to snag him by the hem of his jacket, yanking him forward until he was flung clean over the vigilante's shoulder.

He slammed head-first into the concrete. A crack splintered the top of the helmet with an audible sound - imagine if that had been his skull.

No one came barreling down around him. No cape swallowed him whole and no fists slammed into his bones. The outlaw lumbered to one knee, staring straight ahead with speckled vision at the Batman.

Distantly, it ached.

Presently, it burned.

It came slow, the drawl of accusation. "Batgirl was wounded on patrol," stated Batman, voice thick with blood that got knocked to the surface. 

Jason was quick with the bite back, "That's got nothin' to do with me, B. I've been a good lil' convict on my side of the planet."

"She met with you earlier in the week."

It would be hypocritical of him to feel surprised. Of course _he_ found out. 

A step forward. A hand drifting down to the tool belt where Batarangs were stored - Jason never forgot where on that cursed yellow belt those things were kept. Never ever. It'd be suicide if he did; fuck the No Kill rule. "You said something that has put her in danger," the man continued, "and I have a right to know why you felt the need to step out of place."

His place.

What _place?_

He wasn't a fucking prisoner.

"You have _suuuuch_ a way with words," huffed the outlaw. He rested one arm against his bent knee, lulled his head to the side. "You wanted to know what we talked about? Is that why you decided to come and beat the shit outta me? Didn't know Batman ambushed innocents just 'cuz he's upset."

At some point, Batman had a weapon in hand.

Jason laughed in spite of himself, "Seriously? All I did was ask her what happened to Replacement."

Through the dark and gloom, through the haze of a burning city, Jason saw it; the jaw clenched, cowl tightened over features like the cast of a Greek god. Shoulders squared, head braced down with his stance held wide - Batman was _raging_. "No," was all the vigilante managed once he found his voice. Sirens in the distance rose to a pitch the outlaw's ears couldn't register. Wind, previously howling as it ripped through the iconic cape, silenced in one breath.

Again, like it was the only word he knew. "No."

The second laugh was much heartier than the first. Jason lifted his leading arm to gesture wildly, "Wha'd you just say?? _'No'_?! You can't tell me no when you weren't there, B," he mocked. "Did blondie _tell_ you I said something sinister? Did she say anythin' at all about whose fault it was for her being distracted?"

Herself, he knew, because that was the truth. It was also the one thing that would keep Bruce from ripping into her about the dangers of talking to psychopaths like the Red Hood - and, in layman's terms, removing autonomy. Something Stephanie Brown would never allow if she could help it.

This was Bruce digging into business he wasn't a part of. This was Bruce governing and controlling the lives of his soldiers. This was Bruce forcing his way into a place he wasn't welcomed.

This was Bruce.  
And Jason laughed even harder.

"You're fuckin' ridiculous," the raven said. "You must think you know everything, right? Well, joke's on you, old man. I have the right to _ask_ someone to meet with me. I have the right to _ask_ them what happened and they have the right to _tell_ me what they want to.

"I didn't threaten her," Jason corrected pointedly. "I didn't call her to a secluded location and I didn't put her in danger. I was in my right mind to get mad, though. I thought you were better than this, Bruce."

Two rules broken immediately:

1\. Saying names out loud.

2\. Slander.

Jason wasn't at all surprised when he saw the arm swing back, Batarang primed. He didn't let it stop there.

"I thought you wouldn't let one of us down again."

He waited for Batman's arm to blur with motion. Waited for the sharp stab of a perfect throw. Waited for the chance to fall down the side of the building and make his escape.

Batman's arm blurred but there was no whistle of the sharp projectile slicing through open air.

_**Tink.** _

The vigilante spun around, flexing his empty grip in shock. His eyes dropped to the Batarang lying still on the concrete. It had fallen from his grasp, but that didn't make sense. Batman's grip was never slack. Batman never made such a rookie mistake.

But Batman hadn't seen it.  
And he certainly did see Tim walk past the man with a slight hop to his step, glow dimmer than ever before. 

Something Jason noticed over the past few days was that Tim still carried the same weight and movement he did during his life - when he chose to move, that is. Like he was fresh off the mats, he still had the blood of a Robin flowing through his veins. 

The blood of a good hero who always arrived on time.

Pulling himself up the face of a building in Crime Alley and slipping a sharpened Batarang from the Dark Knight's grip right as he started to throw it, Tim just cut out the middle man. He gestured for Jason to drop once he was close enough. "There's an open window on the floor right below this," Tim said.

In response, the outlaw choked against the lump in his throat. Despite his better judgement, the male forced out an audible sound, "Tim, I—"

Bruce swung around with a look so frenzied under the cowl that he stopped speaking entirely. The expression wasn't as hidden as he would've preferred, imprinting itself in the back of his mind; the shock, the disbelief and the instant purge of color from his face. Without so much as even a mocking, cocky salute or even a final jab of insult, Jason lunged backwards, one arm outstretched to snag the drainage pipe on the way down.

Yeah, there was a window at the perfect height.

Yeah, it was dark, but the soft, hearth-like glow coming from Tim when he joined the outlaw proved he wasn't alone.

Neither Bruce nor Batman chased after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad there was such a positive response on the first chapter. This is really fun to write out.
> 
> (And, yes, Hindsight is still being worked on - for those who were wondering)

**Author's Note:**

> For everyone waiting patiently, I haven’t forgotten!! I injured both my wrists and, subsequently, my fingers back in the beginning of May. I have not yet recovered fully but bit by bit it’s becoming easier.
> 
> This story isn’t as crucial to me as Hindsight, yet I love it all the same. It’s more planned out than Hindsight too, it’s just a lot more information to articulate and condense in a shorter span.
> 
> Still, I’m working on it when I can. Thank you so much for being patient :)


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